


No-Winged Angel

by GuiltyRed



Category: Dirge of Cerberus: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: F/M, Non-con (drugs and bondage), hints of xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-28
Updated: 2009-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-05 09:39:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuiltyRed/pseuds/GuiltyRed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not the way either of them imagined it would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No-Winged Angel

**Author's Note:**

> Title: No-Winged Angel  
> Rating: NC17  
> Warnings: Non-con (drugs and bondage), hints of xeno  
> Word count: 1029  
> Summary: This is not the way either of them imagined it would be.  
> Prompt: Lucrecia/Vincent: Non-con (sex under the influence of drugs) - "Why couldn't you save me from myself?"  
> A/N: Something about this pairing just makes me want to cry…

He blinks, uncertain.

Last he knew, he was dead.

Or very nearly so. Remembered pain cautions him against moving too quickly, but at the moment he doesn’t seem to feel anything at all.

Correction: he feels cool air tickling overheated skin. Unexpected, this, especially in light of his patchy memories. A tube filled with liquid green, life and death merged in fluid brightness – and pain, pain so clear and profound it could not be mistaken for healing.

“You’re awake.”

Vincent struggles to make sense of the words. The voice seems so familiar that the words don’t seem to fit. He tries to move, to test whether the statement is indeed accurate, but his limbs feel too heavy. He blinks again, only then realizing that his eyes had in fact been shut. “Lucrecia? Is that you?” His voice sounds wrong to him, raspy and distant – the voice of a revenant. “Where am I?”

“Hush, now,” she whispers, appearing beside the bed – no, table; he’s lying on a lab table, his arms and legs strapped down by wide, reinforced bands. “It’s going to be all right.”

He stares up at her. The harsh lights above them cast her in a halo glow like an angel, the swell of her belly seeming to hold the promise of the world. When she smiles down at him, even the memory of pain becomes meaningless.

She reaches down and caresses his face, her hand cool and soothing and almost steady. The low tremor running through her body seems to sparkle…

“I don’t feel right,” Vincent murmurs, his tongue thick in his mouth. “What happened?”

Her eyes say _“you’re dead, you’re not human, you’re not real anymore,”_ just as he has imagined; her words say otherwise. “You were shot, but we managed to patch you back together. Don’t worry, everything is going to be all right.”

The tears suggest he should listen to her eyes.

Memories of wrongness surge through his mind like a fever dream, memories of betrayal and hate, of root-strong hands inflicting change upon his body in a blur of agony. Vincent writhes against his bonds, his body reacting to the alien presences within. For one moment he feels the burn and tear of flesh as wings force their existence, trapped between him and the table – then those sweet hands touch his face, bring his gaze to linger on the unfearing smile of an angel.

Everything stops except the whisper of breath and blood.

Reality spins a new form, and Vincent feels the sweat pouring from his body as the hallucination – _it WAS just an hallucination, please gods let it be just madness_ – fades.

At his side, Lucrecia staggers, clutching at her middle. Her sweat mingles with his in a bitter rain. “Oh, please, not now!” She gasps several harsh breaths, her hand gripping the edge of the table with white-knuckled desperation.

_This isn’t real, this can’t be real_ – but Vincent knows better than to listen to his own thoughts: Hojo has been shaping their reality for too long. “Lucrecia!” He strains against the bonds, and again the sensation of wings floods through him, bringing with it a distant sense of strength and power before it dissipates, leaving him exhausted in a narcotic fog.

“I’m all right,” she lies, “but time is short.”

Vincent can hear the rustling of clothing, but makes no sense of it.

Her fingers trace the lines of his face, ease him back into the arms of sleep. As her touch wanders down to his shoulders, Vincent dimly wonders if the wings are still there. When she runs her nails over his bare chest, he gasps, certain that he imagined it.

But when he looks up at her, she is smiling, her fingers tracing the contours of his belly.

At his questioning look, she places a finger across his lips and shakes her head while her other hand…

Vincent bucks beneath her touch, shock and surprise overriding reason. Under other circumstances, he would have had this woman beneath the open skies in a tangle of passion. _But this is wrong somehow…_ “What – what are you doing?”

She squeezes gently, coaxing him erect in spite of the damage coursing through his veins. She runs her thumb delicately across the tip, making him gasp, and she smiles sadly. “It’s too late for us,” she whispers, “but maybe it’s not _too_ late…” Moving with a calm grace, Lucrecia climbs onto the table, raising her skirts and straddling Vincent’s hips.

He stares, not believing. _Another hallucination, yes, that’s it; I’m still floating in that tank, on the edge of death. She is not here, and there are no wings…_

When she lowers herself onto him, her face twists in an ecstasy of pain and she shudders violently. She reaches down and grabs the straps around his wrists; her knees grip his flanks like a rider, strong and determined. And when she begins to move on him, his world goes crimson.

Her eyes, when they meet his, conceal a pale green glow deep within, a glow that speaks of treason and murder.

But when she speaks, her voice is husky with regret. “I need you. _We_ need you. It…it’s too strong. I want my baby to be human. The DNA…it absorbed his. There’s only mine, and Jenova’s. It took the necessary chromosome to make a boy child, but there’s not enough to make him human.”

“This is madness!” Vincent struggles against his bonds, his body, his fate; all is futile. “Lucrecia, don’t do this!”

“It won’t hurt you,” she whispers, teeth clenched against her own intensity. “But it might save my baby. Even now, Jenova absorbs everything I have – food, medicine, all of it. This late in term, your contribution might just make it through. Please, Vincent. You can’t save me, but you can save my child!”

His mind howls with despair as his body submits, pouring his seed into her at her command. The rush of sensation burns through him, tearing away the anesthetic and leaving behind a shroud of agony.

Lucrecia bends down and presses her cold lips to his; her tears splash against Vincent’s eyelashes as his vision turns to blood.


End file.
